e had actors and writers
and editors--the cream of their professions--and every one of them a
devotee, so to speak, of Bacchus. Sure, the finer the intellect, the
greater the sup of drink appeals to them, if it does at all. One of
the greatest frequenters of the club was a man whose inventions," with
a grandiloquent gesture, "revolutionized the industries of the world.
And when he was mellow with it, boys o' boys, but he could discourse!
His name was Morris," added the speaker, "and he was the father of the
young man whose name has been mixed up with this Hume affair which is
so occupying the public mind just now."

"Indeed."

There was a pause: Tobin's mobile face looked back upon the past; his
eyes had an introspective light in them.

"To think," said he, "how the natures of men differ. Some are like the
gods of old, and others again are like--well, like anything you choose
to call them. And yet," with philosophic speculation, "these two
widely diversified types are sometimes friends. To the surprise of
everyone they occasionally take up with one another. It's hard to say
why, but it is so."

"I've noticed it myself," said Ashton-Kirk.

Tobin nodded.

"Never," said he, "did I see it so exemplified as in the case of
Richard Morris and this felly who has just been killed. Never were two
men more unlike; but sorra such an intimacy did I ever see afore, as
there was between them. Morris when he had the drink in him was a
poet. His ideas soared to the starry skies; he flew about upon the
wings of the wind; faith I believe he thought the sun was not beyond
his reach. But Hume was a divil! God save us, that I should say the
like about any human creature; but he had the imp in him, for many's
the time I see it grinning and looking out at his two eyes."

"I've heard it said that he was an unpleasant sort of chap," agreed
the other.

"Unpleasant," said Tobin, "does not do credit to his capabilities,
though 'tis a good word enough. There was never a man came into the
Coffin Club, during the five years that I were there, that looked as
though the place fitted him, but Hume. The others were like bad little
boys who wouldn't take a dare. But Hume was just right. To see him
lift one of the stone skulls to his lips and grin over it at you,
would make your blood run cold. And bless us and save us, gentlemen,
how he would jeer and snarl and laugh all at the one time. Many's the
time I've listened to poor Morris rave and pain